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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188944">i'll play for you.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardway/pseuds/waywardway'>waywardway</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>music has charms to soothe the savage breast. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Slow Burn, and cute fluff, something light !! to ease all of us during this terrible time !!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:22:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardway/pseuds/waywardway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>bands, crushes, and an annoying blond twin who's put in the middle.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>music has charms to soothe the savage breast. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. extra large americano.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to my umpteenth new story !! enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being in a band with Miya Atsumu was simultaneously his biggest mistake and regret in his twenty-one years of life. That bastard couldn’t compromise for shit, and consequently made his, and the other members’ lives, five-hundred times more difficult. Attending a post-secondary school for music for a semester made him a pompous little asshole, and Suna considered it sheer luck that he didn’t garrote him with his spare guitar strings at some point during the night.  </p><p>Functioning with under two hours of sleep, he desperately needed caffeine; to snort, to shoot, to drink, caffeine in any form. Which was why, at six in the morning on a Monday, he was at a coffee shop waiting for his extra large Americano with three extra shots, no foam. Of course, being in public in broad daylight meant that he had to be clad in a hoodie, a hat, and a jacket zipped all the way up to his chin. The band was in no way about to grace the cover of Rolling Stone any time soon, but they had gained relative popularity during the five months it had been since the band began. Luckily, though, his disguise seemed to be working. Either that, or the fuck right off, don’t talk to me aura was doing the trick. Early morning commuters popped in and out of the place, meaning that there was a bit of a wait for his order, but when the barista calls out extra large Americano, three extra shots, no foam he nearly jumps at it. His hand reaches out like a vicious claw, and collides with another, gentler hand. </p><p>Irritation? Vexation? Inclinations for murder? A hybrid mix of various states of emotion course through him as he shoots an uncomfortable glare at the owner of said hand. The owner of the hand, a boy with grey-ish hair and roots that needed touch-ups, gave him a look, too. He looked delicate but firm, withdrawn yet assertive, and made Suna almost forget about the fact that he had been up for twenty hours straight because of a certain blonde-haired pain in the ass. He too was donning a hoodie, baggy and therefore shielding any definitive features besides the hair that peeked past the fabric, but the brief look gave way to gray-coloured eyes and soft features that Suna found vaguely familiar and yet completely captivating. </p><p>“Sorry. Go ahead.” </p><p>Wait a minute. Was that Suna giving up his own drink? To a total stranger? For no reason? Knowing that he needed caffeine by the truck-load to go another round with Miya Fucking Atsumu? </p><p>“That’s not my name on the cup.” It wasn’t Suna’s name on the cup either. He wasn’t about to broadcast his identity after going through the trouble of hiding it under layers and layers of clothing, and so he gave whatever name popped in his head first at the time of ordering.</p><p>But God, did he have a ridiculously enamoring voice. </p><p>“It’s—It’s fine. I can wait.”</p><p>“… Thanks.” The voice is slightly aloof, and in three seconds he’s gone. </p><p>The stranger had looked directly at him, and yet didn’t recognize him. Or pretended not to recognize him. What was worse? </p><p>Very few interactions left him so dumbfounded. Very few people left him so stunned. It was the sleep-deprivation. It was the exhaustion. It was the fact that in a life of gritty monochrome, his heart moved just in the slightest, unexpectedly and unsolicited for reasons he couldn’t explain, because of a extra large Americano with three extra shots, no foam drinking, baggy hoodie wearing, aloof sounding coffee shop boy. </p><p>Five minutes later he gets his coffee. The name, scrawled on the cup, read OSAMU.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. saturday.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>fingers crossed that i can see this story through to its entirety before starting something new again !!!</p><p>edit: i know sunaosa is really the center of this story and this is such a minute detail in the grand scheme of things, but suna is now the rhythm guitarist of the band as opposed to the lead, which will be atsumu [:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In a pathetic attempt to see Osamu again, if for nothing else than to simply understand what kind of black voodoo magic was at work (because how else could he explain an attraction to a stranger he barely spoke to, barely saw anything of, and spoke nine words to?) that was distracting him from his primary activity and source of income, Suna chanced going to that same coffee shop at the same time the next day. He couldn’t just let this go. Practices had to be paused because Suna would, unintentionally, slide into the wrong key, play the wrong note, sing the wrong words, and even play the wrong song (once: he got confused for a second when he was pulled into reality by a swearing Atsumu). But he was just trying to make sense of the fact that Osamu practically looked <em>right</em> through him, barely acknowledged his existence, and only muttered a ‘thanks’ before leaving with the coffee Suna gave up for him. What the fuck was that, anyway? Wouldn’t the <em>normal</em> thing be to introduce himself after thanking him for the coffee? As a ‘hey, this is who you gave up your coffee for’?</p><p>The next day, at six in the morning, Suna was back at the coffee shop, had ordered the same drink with the same name he had done the previous day, and waited. Six turned to six-ten, twenty, thirty, but the gray-haired boy hadn’t shown up. By seven-forty-five, Suna had to <em>infuriatingly</em> admit defeat. The status quo Suna would have just given up. An enticing boy had ordered the same drink as him some Monday morning; so what? He had a successful band, a ton of fans, and was gaining popularity by the day. What else could he possibly want?</p><p>The status quo Suna was on a bit of a hiatus, as evidenced by the fact that the next day, after the failure of the previous day, he had returned. Half of him was partly hoping that the boy wouldn’t be there, just so he could put this whole thing to rest and return to the life that was waiting for him. It had to be on <em>that</em> day that the door chime rang a light three-tones at six-oh-three, and in walked a boy with distinctive gray hair pouring out from his hood. Without wasting a second Suna rises from his window seat, leaving his coffee atop the table, and approaches the boy waiting for his Americano.</p><p>“Hi. Osamu, right?”</p><p>The boy turns his head for a split second, not long enough for Suna to get a good-enough look at him, and then turns it away again. “Hi.”</p><p>Kind of a rocky start, but at least Osamu was acknowledging him more than he had that first meeting. A good sign?</p><p>“You’re up early.”</p><p>“I guess.”</p><p>“What have you got to do so early? Besides take my coffee.” A pathetic attempt at a joke from someone who never made playful jokes.</p><p>“A school thing.”</p><p>“Where do you go?”</p><p>“Tokyo.” Pretty far from where they were currently. What was he doing for the University of Tokyo that had him all the way here?</p><p>It was then that his coffee had come out, and once again Osamu seemed prepared to ditch the scene. That was, until Suna stopped him with a hand placed on his shoulder. “Wait.”</p><p>“I’m late.”</p><p>“Let’s talk a little. It’s not everyday that you meet someone who drinks the exact same thing you do.”</p><p>“I really don’t want to. Sorry.” His hand is shrugged off with a force that seemed disproportionate to the groggy voice that matched the gray hair.</p><p>Once again, Osamu ditched the scene. Once again, Suna was left dumbfounded at the interaction.</p><p>***</p><p>“I forgot to tell you losers—my brother’s in town,” Atsumu announces, suddenly and abruptly as the group was in the midst of cleaning up the practice room. Instruments laid haphazardly on the carpeted floor, sheet music in every nook and cranky of the place with picks and drum sticks accenting spaces here and there with no rhyme nor reason.</p><p>“Is he as pretentious as you are?” Suna sneers, <em>possibly</em> taking out the frustration from the blatant rejection he had thrown in his face on the <em>next</em> most irritating thing in his life.</p><p>“You never mentioned a brother. Do you two not get along?” Akagi, the makeshift leader and drummer of the band, not to mention the glue that kept three volatile compounds from erupting, asks.</p><p>“We get along fine. He does his thing, I do my thing, and we don’t cross boundaries. “</p><p>“What’s his thing?”</p><p>“Volleyball.”</p><p>“Well, as long as he isn’t a blonde little prick named Atsumu, I’ll like him just fine.” Suna is nonchalant about it too, as he attempts to order a stack of mismatched sheet music into their original places. Snipping at Atsumu took very little brainpower at this point, five months in.</p><p>“You should invite him to our show Saturday night.” Terushima, the bassist, suggests, a handful of picks in his hands that had been littered along the floor.</p><p>“There might not <em>be </em>a show if our good ol’ pal Suna doesn’t get his shit together.” This time, it wasn’t a retort. They all noticed it; Suna seemed preoccupied with something <em>other</em> than their rehearsals, and as the vocalist and rhythm guitarist, Suna being off threw everything else out of whack.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, he was preoccupied thinking about Osamu. <em>No</em>, he didn’t know that Osamu was the brother Atsumu had mentioned. It wasn’t until the show on Saturday night, approximately thirteen minutes before they were scheduled to perform in front of a sold-out venue, that he spots the coffee-shop boy in the crowd from behind the stage. He was kind of off to the side, away from the main group of people, and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was also the first time Suna actually <em>saw</em> him, without the hoodie and baggy clothes. </p><p>The horrific realization hit him a minute later, when Atsumu said he had managed to convince his brother to come and see the show. Slowly, but with purpose, he looks from Osamu to Atsumu and then back to Osamu and then to Atsumu and feels as if he needs to take a physical break from his life to process this information. For a split second he thinks maybe it isn’t coffee-shop Osamu. He could have seen wrong.</p><p>But no, the build, the hair, the aura, it was<em> him</em>.</p><p>Suna was officially attached and had been brutally <strong>rejected</strong> by Atsumu’s brother.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. when you were playing.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Osamu</em> is your brother. He’s <em>your</em> brother. You’re related.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, what about it. How do you know him?”</p>
<p>“He— And the coffee— the shop—”</p>
<p>“What are you on about? What is he on about?”</p>
<p>“Suna. Will you be okay doing this?” Akagi is waving a hand to-and-fro in front of Suna’s face, hoping to bring him out of the shock that had practically paralyzed him, but to no avail.</p>
<p>If Osamu was Atsumu’s brother, then he could safely assume that Osamu knew about the band. Which meant that he maybe, possibly, probably saw a picture, a video, a clip, <em>something</em> about the band. Which meant that he maybe, possibly, probably knew that Suna was in said band. Which meant that he <em>definitely</em> should have recognized Suna that day. Which meant that he definitely recognized Suna, and didn’t care.</p>
<p>Oh, God.</p>
<p>A million things ran through his head. What was it? Was it because he knew Atsumu? What did that blond bastard say about him that made Osamu say a brisk “I don’t want to” when Suna offered a request to get to know him? Was it the band thing? The knowing-his-brother thing?</p>
<p>But the most prominent thought was this: <em>I have to give him one hell of a show</em>. And he did. From the second he walked on stage until the second he walked off of it, during the entirety of their set, he played and sang with an energy he had never had.</p>
<p>As it turned out, playing and playing <em>for</em> someone produced two <em>very </em>different results.</p>
<p>The second they stepped off-stage, he received hair tousles and headlocks from relieved-looking bandmates who seemed glad that Suna hadn’t played the way he had during rehearsals, but also somewhat surprised that his sound had changed so dramatically in the span of several days. He could hear it, too. The notes were the same. The lyrics were the same. But something about the delivery had been completely different, and involuntarily.</p>
<p>Whatever it was, though, it had worked. Backstage, as they were clearing instruments and amps and cords, a very awkward-looking Osamu had managed to track them down. He shared a few sarcastic drawls with Atsumu, underlying what seemed like satisfaction, and then was introduced to the band. Osamu couldn’t quite meet Suna’s eye. Not until the others dispersed, and Suna is approached by an Osamu that was fiddly and on-edge.</p>
<p>He clears his throat to get his attention, which Suna gives, but as if he failed to notice that Osamu had attended the show at all. After all, his pride had been demolished into rubble. “You came.”</p>
<p>“Atsumu asked me, and I was free, so …”</p>
<p>“And? What’d you think?”</p>
<p>“Could I— Could I talk to you? Outside?”</p>
<p>Suna blinks at the abrupt question that, conveniently, didn’t answer <em>his </em>question, but leads Osamu outside through the emergency exit that opened to a dimly-lit alleyway that lay behind the venue. He waits until Osamu gathers his bearings; it’s a minute or two before the silence is broken.</p>
<p>“My brother and I don’t mesh well. We used to have a pretty bad relationship, until we decided to stay in our own lanes and not interfere with each other’s lives.”</p>
<p>“So that’s why you— … at the coffee shop?”</p>
<p>“Well, kind of. I really didn’t care to know you then, either.”</p>
<p>Huh. Quick and painful. “I see.”</p>
<p>“But, um … after hearing you play tonight, I think I’ve changed my mind.”</p>
<p>“What about how I played tonight?”</p>
<p>Of course Suna knew where Osamu was going with this. He was more observant than most. But he felt as if he needed to hear it directly, upfront. He needed to hear what Osamu wanted, in his own words, because he wasn’t going to impose, put words in his mouth, or demand to get in between whatever had happened between him and Atsumu.</p>
<p>Osamu is visibly nervous. He is fiddling with his fingers, avoiding eye contact, and obviously mulling over his words. “I don’t know much, or really anything, about music. I, uh, failed my sixth-grade music class actually, because I couldn’t keep time or read sheet music properly. When Atsumu used to play guitar in our room when we were growing up, I’d throw pencils at him because I thought it was really fucking annoying.” He seemed sheepish. Suna found it ridiculously endearing.</p>
<p>“Anyway, I’m not a musician, so I can’t say if it was good or bad or what … but I liked it. I liked what it made you do.”</p>
<p>This was where Suna’s anticipations divulged. He wasn’t really expecting those words to be said. “What?”</p>
<p>“You seemed more like your genuine self. If that makes sense. I don’t know, maybe it was just in my head. I liked you more when you were playing.”</p>
<p>“Then when I’m just talking and being alive? Seems like an insult.” He’s only teasing, though. He couldn’t, or maybe he didn’t, want to show how surprised he was that someone who was as dense about music as he claimed could understand or recognize that level of musicality. Osamu was right. He was happiest when he was playing. That’s why he could endure Atsumu’s irritatingly persistent existence, and join with others as a collective. That’s why he could put his own wishes aside and compromise. He had never been good at that outside of music.</p>
<p>“Hey. How about this,” Suna starts, taking a single step closer to where Osamu was standing. “Give me one day.”</p>
<p>He’s given a quizzical look. “One day? For what?”</p>
<p>“To change your mind about me.”</p>
<p>Osamu looks at him. Silently. He seems to be weighing the options in his head, one after the other, carefully and diligently. Finally, he merely nods once.</p>
<p>Suna didn’t even try to hide the smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “Tomorrow, six in the morning, in front of the coffee shop. Careful on your way home.” He opens the door back into the venue (no way was he sending Osamu off into a dingy alley), but stops him one more time before he makes too much progress.</p>
<p>“Oh, and Osamu?”</p>
<p>A silent turn of the head.</p>
<p>“Don’t show up at six-oh-three.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. c.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: tags this as slow burn<br/>also me: makes them kiss four chapters in</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Suna Rintarou could be a difficult person to get along with. He was abrasive, standoffish, and hard to get close to. Compromise, understanding, and gentleness were words and emotions he wasn’t familiar with. Akagi had been a bit concerned, at the beginning, if the band thing would even work. With Atsumu, who was very much the same way, clashing with Suna at every given moment of every given day, he and Terushima were often left dangling in the middle, keeping apart two wild dogs so they wouldn’t rip each other to shreds.</p>
<p>But when it came to music, he was a completely different person. The first time it happened was relatively early on during the beginning phases of their bandmanship. Atsumu and Suna disagreed about keys, Suna thinking a minor key was the way to go and Atsumu complaining that the minor key ruined the song’s vibe, and Akagi was sure that this would be it: this would be the day Suna and Atsumu exploded and the band would break apart before they could <em>be</em> a band. To everyone’s surprise, though, Suna suggested drafting two versions of the song, one in a minor key and one in a major key, with Suna in charge of the former and Atsumu in charge of the latter, and then let the band decide.</p>
<p>It was then that Akagi knew that Suna could be trusted.</p>
<p>Suna had a lot of pride. He was stubborn.</p>
<p>But he cared about the band, a band who had yet to produce any results or yield any rewards, to the point where he could put aside personal feelings and compromise.</p>
<p>He wanted this. He loved this. It was everything to him.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>At six, exactly at six, Suna rounds the corner to find Osamu waiting by the coffee shop as agreed. Despite the early hour, he didn’t look too ragged.</p>
<p>“Why’d you come dressed like you’re on the run from the law?”</p>
<p>Suna snorts. “This is for <em>you</em>.” He points to the left as a silent indicator of the direction in which they would be going.</p>
<p>“For me? Why? Because you really <em>are</em> on the run, and if I’m seen with you, I’ll also have to become a fugitive by association?”</p>
<p>“Because if people see us together, it’ll ruin your normal, mediocre life and turn it into an abnormal, mediocre life.” Suna’s tone is light, but his words were heavy, and were obviously not meant to be taken as a joke. Osamu doesn’t really see the big deal; he would have, what, three pictures taken of him? And then the internet would move on to someone more exciting, better looking, more scandalous, and leave him be. But he would give him this and press on to more important matters.</p>
<p>“Where are we going?”</p>
<p>“To the practice room.”</p>
<p>“What practice room?”</p>
<p>“The band’s.”</p>
<p>Osamu wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Was it a stop? What could be in a practice room that would make him “change his mind”?</p>
<p>It turned out that the practice room a light, ten-minute walk from the coffee shop. During that ten minutes, they engaged in meaningless small talk. Suna asked him about school and volleyball, and Osamu, in turn, would ask about the band and how Atsumu was doing in it. It felt … normal. It felt as if he was on a walk with someone from the team, someone he knew and was comfortable around. There were no awkward silences. The conversation never dropped off. Suna seemed genuinely interested in what Osamu did to pass the time, what he was majoring in, if he did well in school, how much he liked volleyball, and how on <em>Earth</em> he could fail an elementary school music class.</p>
<p>“We need to fix that.”</p>
<p>And so, at the practice room, Suna sits Osamu down on a ragged stool and hands him the black acoustic guitar he was using during the show he saw the previous night. He isn’t quite sure what to do with it, holding it in his palms and clearly uncomfortable with this foreign object that had just been handed to him. “What—”</p>
<p>“I’m going to teach you how to play.”</p>
<p>“Play? Play this?”</p>
<p>“What else? I can’t teach you how to play drums or the bass.”</p>
<p>“Did you forget when I told you I failed music class?”</p>
<p>“Ah, but you didn’t have <em>me</em> as your teacher.”</p>
<p>Suna is serious about this. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of Osamu, slender fingers carefully positioning a hand around the neck of the guitar, and draping the other over the side of the body. “Black or blue?”</p>
<p>“... Uh, black, I guess.”</p>
<p>A black pick is plucked from a clear bowl filled with at least fifty, and is gingerly placed atop Osamu’s finger. “Hold this in between your thumb and your pointer finger. Good. Okay, try giving it a strum.”</p>
<p>The sound is rough and jagged, a terrible off-tune squeal echoing off the walls and quite literally making Osamu flinch. Suna seems unbothered, though, and is already pressing three fingers atop distinct strings. “This first chord is E major. It’s normal for it to feel a little uncomfortable at first, but just try and keep your fingers pressed down, and strum. When you do, try to go through all of the strings. It’ll fill up the sound.”</p>
<p>Osamu genuinely didn’t know if the sound he produced was what it was supposed to sound like or not. But Suna encourages him to try a few more times. As an absolute beginner, it was no surprise that he sucked ass at it. It was hard keeping his fingers pressed down so hard for so long, and the strings vibrated against his finger beds so much they started getting sore. Strumming sounded as if it would be the easiest part; until he had to combine upstrokes. Suna would teach him a chord, like D, and then five minutes later Osamu would forget what the D chord was or how it sounded like.</p>
<p>In short, he was a nightmare of a student to teach.</p>
<p>But Suna never got short with him. He wasn’t on edge, irritated, frustrated, or annoyed. Whenever Osamu would make one of the countless mistakes he made that day, Suna would look up at him with such an endeared expression, telling him it was okay, and helping him readjust. Whenever Osamu would manage playing a C or a D all by himself, Suna would laugh, melodic and bright, and praise him with a sincerity Osamu had never heard. Little did he know that Suna’s reaction was not so much because Osamu successfully played a chord (although that it self was a feat), but was because Osamu literally lit up like a 500 volt bulb whenever he could do something without Suna’s help or instruction.</p>
<p>All the while one minute turned to two, two turned to three, and three turned to four <em>hours</em> before Suna suggested a break.</p>
<p>“No, no, I can do this.”</p>
<p>By ‘this’ Osamu was referring to the C chord, notoriously difficult for beginners since it stretched over three frets in a way unnatural to virgin fingers. But the more Suna told him that C might be harder for him to nail, the more stubborn Osamu got, and the more he insisted that he could.</p>
<p>“Here, I’ll help you.” Suna gets up, gets behind Osamu, and first places both hands on his shoulders. “You’re too tense. Relax your form a little.” He then bends over a little, just so he can look over his shoulder, and uses his own hand to curl Osamu’s further around the neck. “This’ll give you more reach.” He comes back around, sits back down again, and gestures for Osamu to take a stab at it.</p>
<p>He gets it on the first try.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Osamu murmurs after a <em>long</em> pause, and meets Suna’s own surprised expression, “was that it? Was that right?”</p>
<p>“Y – Yeah, yeah that was it … that was it!” They both shoot up, celebratory profanities being thrown, and Suna is looking at Osamu happy and smiling and laughing and he must have had a temporary mental lapse because one second he’s, well, <em>not</em> kissing him, and the next second he is.</p>
<p>As in, he just went in and kissed him.</p>
<p>The second he’s done it, though, he’s already regretting it.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p>He’s thinking of what he can say. How can he excuse this? Something like “sorry, I tripped and landed on your mouth”? But it was hard thinking when the most prominent thought blaring like a hurricane alarm inside his mind was <em>good God, how dumb </em>are<em> you?</em> Osamu didn’t even like him as a human being, and for all he knew didn’t even swing that way when it came to the <strong>other</strong> thing, and he’s went and somehow fucked up a chance to undo his previous fuck up, and—</p>
<p>But Osamu is kissing him back. He thinks he might have gone delusional after that slight mental blip so he peeks an eye open to check, but no, it was real. Osamu was kissing him, his palm resting on Suna’s cheek, the other still holding the neck of the guitar behind him.</p>
<p>Maybe this could be okay.</p>
<p>Hands as delicate as glass begin to reach out for him, to grasp onto whatever part of Osamu he reached first, and he feels the fabric of the black sweater Osamu donned brush against his fingers before the kiss is abruptly halted by a flushed, speechless Osamu. In his panic he’s shoved the guitar in his hand into Suna’s chest, and is reaching back for the coat that had been draped over Akagi’s crash symbol. “Okay, I’m— I’m going. I’m going now.”</p>
<p>Suna can’t even finish saying Osamu’s name before he’s flown out the door.</p>
<p>He doesn’t chase after him. Why would he? It was his own fault. He did this. He kissed him, without warning, without reason, without right. And with his heart hammering in his ear, he stands there, dumbfounded.</p>
<p>Osamu, however, didn’t quite leave. He was going to, wanted to, but stopped dead in his tracks after exiting the building. Seeing Suna gentle with him moved him in ways he didn’t want, but also didn’t want to resist. He didn't want to have to. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a decision he could make. Not on his own, at least. He pulls out his phone, speed dials eight, and hears the phone ring thrice before it’s picked up.</p>
<p>“Hey, Atsumu? I need to talk to you about Suna.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. warmth.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the ride is about to get a little bumpy, so enjoy the fluff while it lasts :]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What about Suna?”</p>
<p>It wasn’t until that moment that Osamu realized the gravity of the situation at hand. He and his brother kept their lives so separate from each other, and necessarily so, that a mingling like this had never happened before. He felt almost <em>guilty</em>, and because of that, he couldn’t outright admit anything. He mumbled a few things, some vague things, until Atsumu interrupted him. “Dude. What the hell are you saying? Just come out with it, I’m busy right now.”</p>
<p>“I … I k— ki—”</p>
<p>“D’ya kill him? I wouldn’t blame you. Is that it?”</p>
<p>“No. No, I didn’t kill him. I did the opposite of kill him.”</p>
<p>“Which is?”</p>
<p>“I … I might have k— kissed him. A little. Accidentally.”</p>
<p>The line is quiet for a while. <em>Now I’ve done it</em>. He’s prepared to have a nice verbal beating, only to precede the physical one he’s sure will follow, but no such beating ensues.</p>
<p>“…Okay. And that has <strong>what</strong> to do with me?”</p>
<p>The response leaves him astounded. “In your practice room,” Osamu emphasizes, as if such details would make Atsumu go “oh, you mean MY Suna, the one in MY band, you twat.” Because, believe it or not, that would be less weird.  </p>
<p>“I don’t know what you think Suna and I do in there, but we ain’t kissing. I could care less where he’s spreading his germs. Oh, but I do care if you fucked in there. Don’t tell me you two fucked in there—”</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck off, we didn’t have sex.”</p>
<p>“Then what the hell did you call me for? To tell me you two kissed? You want a congratulatory cake, or what?”</p>
<p>“You don’t care? It doesn’t piss you off? I just hooked up with someone from <em>your</em> band, after swearing I wouldn’t have shit to do with anything involving you.”</p>
<p>“Again, I should care about that why? Just don’t make him late. And don’t turn him into a sappy shit show. I’m going now.</p>
<p>The line clicks off, and he has to take a moment to let everything sink in. The only reason he left as quickly as he did was because he thought he was crossing a line. Sure, it did take him by surprise, and he wasn’t exactly expecting a kiss as a form of praise, but in the matter of five hours or so, Suna had accomplished the impossible: get Osamu to change his mind. He had agreed to this day anticipating Suna’s failure, and therefore maintaining the unspoken pact between his brother and him. Seeing as how said pact apparently didn’t apply here, he rushes (quite literally <em>rushes</em>) back inside the building. Out of breath from tackling six stories in one go, the door to the practice room is thrown open in a hurry to unveil a completely stoic Suna who, by the looks of it, had been standing right there in that same way since Osamu walked out fifteen minutes ago. The door bursting open causes him to jump, blinking at Osamu in warranted confusion. Despite that, however, he doesn’t stop to take time to explain why he left or what made him come back; swift steps close the distance between them, and their lips meet in a flurry of flesh and gasps for air. Suna is noticeably more reserved this time, though, and it doesn’t take a genius to know why: after Osamu so curtly broke it off the first time, he felt uneasy with it the second time. Osamu, knowing this, tossed the jacket in his hand on the floor and used that very hand to guide Suna’s arm around his frame.</p>
<p>Having Osamu kiss him so directly was overwhelming enough. But he could feel his fingers in his hair, his breath tickling his cheek, his mouth on his practically inviting Suna to claim him, and he thinks he might actually lose his mind. Suna’s finally grasping onto him, and with such force, as a stark parallel to the gentle intensity of the kiss that was just utterly taking Osamu’s breath away. When the terms in between the brief gales for air begin to shorten, Suna <em>very</em> reluctantly pulls away. It takes an immense amount of self-control not to give into Osamu (desperately needing air and yet still) chasing his mouth and not letting go of the grip he had on him.</p>
<p>“You need a breather,” came the explanation, and a stifled smile to accompany it, as he gently nudges the tip of his nose into the curve of Osamu’s jaw. In turn arms are wrapped around his neck, pulling Suna’s larger frame into his and thereby making his hammering heartbeat all the more palpable. They stay that way for a while, sinking into each other’s warmth and presence, until Osamu carefully breaks the silence.</p>
<p>“Suna.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“We can’t have sex in here. I promised Atsumu.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>whether or not they did Do The Deed in the practice room, i'll leave to your imaginations. heh.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. liberation.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me, updating fics in a timely manner? unheard of.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As it turned out, admitting their feelings was the least of their difficulties.</p>
<p>It was a gigantic step, of course, that went without saying. Osamu would attend whatever shows he could to see the band (but actually Suna) play, and when Suna saw him backstage afterwards he would race over to give him a kiss and then ask how he was, all while Atsumu looked on with something of disgust mixed in with a pinch of somberness. Akagi and Terushima still couldn’t adjust to the Suna who smiled so brightly, was affectionate and loving, and yearned for attention. But they welcomed Osamu anyway, and even Atsumu gave the newly-formed couple his blessing.</p>
<p>All that being said, it didn’t change the fact that they were two completely different people. Osamu was more reserved, lowkey and gentle, whereas Suna was more assertive, robust, and rough around the edges. However, rather than Osamu adapting to Suna, Suna was constantly surprising him by showing him parts of him that had hadn’t seen. Yes, Suna was assertive, but he never kept Osamu out of decisions that affected him, no matter how minor. Yes, Suna was robust, but was constantly asking Osamu “is this okay?” before doing anything at all. Yes, Suna was rough around the edges, but calloused fingers were meek against his skin, and kisses were always tender. Suna was the most complex force of a man Osamu had ever known. Them two, just them, worked. In a strange way, everything fit.</p>
<p>But mixing in the dreaded aspect of real life wasn’t as smooth a transition. Suna never let Osamu meet him without the both of them gearing up in a hat or a hood, a jacket that could be zipped to the chin, and a mask. And despite all such precautions, he wouldn’t meet him in broad daylight in any busy, crowd-heavy parts of town. Their outings were usually by car (with tinted windows). He didn’t touch him in public. He barely spoke to him in public. They didn’t make any unintended stops. It was only after they were in the safety of the car, the practice room, or Suna’s apartment that Suna was Suna again, peppering him in kisses and refusing to let go of his hand.</p>
<p>He also never came to Osamu’s school. He never picked him up at his dorm. He never went to see any of Osamu’s games.</p>
<p>Osamu understood why. Suna didn’t like being seen, photographed, or followed. But it all seemed like too much. He didn’t like not being able to turn his head, or talk at a normal volume outdoors, or just sit at a restaurant like two normal people would instead of getting takeout. He would have liked it if Suna would come see him play, or wait for him at his dorm until Osamu was done with classes. He didn’t like it so much that he even chanced asked Atsumu about his opinion on it, if it was really that necessary.</p>
<p>“Sure, I get it. Suna’s a prickly little bastard, never liked people in his business.”</p>
<p>That was all good and well. Until it wasn’t.</p>
<p>It was a Thursday. They were supposed to meet up later that night after the sun had set. Suna agreed to come pick him up two blocks away from the dorm at eight, about two-ish hours after practice that day. Post-shower and snack, Osamu is scrolling through his phone to pass the time, and sees a news headline on the trending page of a newspaper he frequently read that caught his eye. He looks at the picture underneath the bolded title and freezes.</p>
<p>Suna. Out and about, no coverings whatsoever, with some female he didn’t recognize but was apparently some well-known up-and-coming model. He looked so at ease, opening a door for her and laughing as if he didn’t have a single care in the world. It was as if it wasn’t just yesterday when Suna insisted on parking in some dingy alleyway three blocks away from the grocery store just to buy some energy drinks, and insisted Osamu stay in the car.</p>
<p>He wanted to puke.</p>
<p>It wasn’t even the fact that Suna was with that girl. It was the fact that it wasn’t so much that Suna didn’t want to be seen, he just didn’t want to be seen with <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>Tremblings fingers type out a blunt message to Suna about not being to meet that night. A response comes almost immediately, Suna asking if he was okay, if he was sick, and if he needed someone brought to him. Not “I’ll bring you something” but “I’ll have something brought to you.”</p>
<p>Osamu doesn’t respond. And because he doesn’t, he gets a call shortly thereafter. He answers, but only to see what Suna would say. The article had come out that day, so it wasn’t as if it was old news. There was also no way Suna didn’t know, with an entire label micromanaging his public image. Would he address it? Would he frantically apologize, or briskly brush it off?</p>
<p>“Osamu? Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“You don’t sound sick … What is it? Did you get hurt during practice? Did you fight with Atsumu again? I’ll fucking kill him for starting with y—”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“ … You’re starting to sound like you did when we first met.”</p>
<p>Osamu scoffs. Not a single word about the pictures. Not even some pathetic, transparent excuse. Not a lie, nor an attempt at one.</p>
<p>“Suna, I have to go.”</p>
<p>“Osam—”</p>
<p>His phone is shut off and put next to him. And for what seemed like only a tumultuous ten minutes was in actuality three hours, he sits there blank and vacant. Some part of him wished Suna would come see him. Some part of him wished Suna would break all of his many, unspoken rules to see him. But another part didn’t think he could converse properly at this state. Something in his chest ached, a resounding kind of throbbing that reverberated into his bones. That picture was seared into his head, engraved into the crevices so deeply that no amount of thinking could get it to disappear.</p>
<p>It wasn’t the girl. Osamu didn’t care about that. It was just how liberated Suna looked, being with someone other than him.</p>
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